


Chicken Noodle Soup For The Demonic Soul

by BlackWingsWhiteWings



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chicken Noodle Soup, Crowley has nightmares, Fluffy, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Mild Angst, Nightmares, Oneshot, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sleepovers, Warm pillows and blankets, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), demons get sick too, don't worry the demon will be okay, this is just a fluffy little story, vulnerable crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29579355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackWingsWhiteWings/pseuds/BlackWingsWhiteWings
Summary: Crowley is sick and Aziraphale forces him to accept his tender care. A good, long nap should fix everything, right? But there are nightmares lurking in Crowley's head, and for the first time, Aziraphale sees a truly vulnerable side of the demon...A teensy bit angsty, mostly fluffy oneshot inspired by GO daydreams :)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	Chicken Noodle Soup For The Demonic Soul

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first posting! Hope you enjoy it :)

The bell above the door tinkled pleasantly.

“We’re closed,” said Aziraphale in a very practiced way, a nearly Pavlovian response to the sound of that bell.

“It’s only 2 in the afternoon. Pretty early to be closed,” remarked a raspy voice, belonging to a very grumpy customer indeed.

“Well, as proprietary owner of this particular establishment, I am well within my rights to –“ Aziraphale stopped short as he saw the man in the doorway. “Wha- Crowley?”

“Expecting someone else?”

“No, but…” The angel looked his best friend up and down, his worry growing with every second. The demon in the doorway was looking very much the worse for wear; his normally perfectly mussed red hair was dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead, which appeared much paler than usual. His long limbs which were usually so animated hung limply, just like the rest of him. The slight shaking of his body was clearly visible even from Aziraphale’s quickly shortening distance as he hurried over, already wringing his hands.

“Crowley, what’s wrong with you?”

“Dunno what you mean,” growled Crowley, attempting a nonchalant stance that was ruined slightly by him obviously leaning his entire weight against a nearby bookshelf. The closer he got, the more Aziraphale could see individual beads of sweat on the demon’s brow.

“Give over Crowley,” admonished the angel, reaching out to pull the dark sunglasses from Crowley’s face. It was a great measure of the demon’s state that he only half-heartedly protested and didn’t move to stop him. What Aziraphale saw made him give a small gasp; those usually bright golden eyes were weary looking, circled with dark purple rings and the pupils were tight slights. Crowley squinted, hissing softly as the dim light of the bookshop hit his eyes. “You are going to tell me what is going on _right now_ , or so help… someone, I will not assist you one iota. And you very clearly need my assistance,” finished Aziraphale forcefully.

Crowley snatched his glasses back from Aziraphale’s hand testily, mashing them roughly back on his face and pushing past him. “I didn’t come here for you to fuss over me angel. I just wanted some…” he paused, seemingly searching for some excuse that wasn’t coming readily to his forked tongue. “…scotch.” He nodded, seeming proud of his decision.

“Scotch,” repeated Aziraphale flatly, staring at Crowley unimpressed as the lanky demon shuffled to the back room. The angel followed closely behind in case the demon fell over as he seemed wont to do at any moment.

Crowley collapsed into his usual space on Aziraphale’s well-worn sofa, groaning slightly as he leaned back. His breathing sounded slightly laboured, and he suppressed a shiver as Aziraphale watched. Aziraphale’s hands twisted anxiously as he mentally flip-flopped between admonishing and nursing his best friend. In the end, he chose a neutral ground – sitting in the chair opposite the sofa and staring at Crowley until he spit out whatever this was going on.

It didn’t take long under the principality’s piercing blue gaze for Crowley to weaken; to be fair, he seemed fairly powerless as it was. He harrumphed for a bit, wriggling around on the sofa in an attempt to get comfortable, moaned about scotch for a moment, complained about nothing in particular while waving a limp hand around. Eventually he got around to it.

“I feel like shit angel,” Crowley grumbled, finally pulling his dark glasses off and rubbing his eyes with his long fingers in an uncharacteristically human way.

“And? Are you going to explain why? Or do you even know?” asked Aziraphale, feeling slight relief that Crowley was finally talking properly.

“It’s just… it just happens,” sighed Crowley. He sunk down deeper into the sofa, letting the hand holding his glasses dangle off the armrest. “Every so often… I think it’s a side-effect of being on earth too long. I’ve always stayed as far away from Hell as possible – for obvious reasons.” His chuckle was hollow sounding. “Anyways, ‘sprobably no good for a demon to be escaping the wrath of Hell as efficiently as I have for all these centuries. Think it’s their way of punishing me.”

Aziraphale gazed at his demon, still feeling very worried and out-of-sorts. “But what exactly is wrong with you? And why is this happening now? Does it have something to do with – you know, preventing the apocalypse and all that?”

“ ‘All that’,” snorted Crowley weakly, trying for a laugh and failing. “Nah, this has been going on forever. At least once a year for the past, I dunno, 1200 years? Maybe longer.”

“I’ve never seen you like this!” protested the angel, brow furrowing.

“Yeah well, maybe I managed to keep just a few things from you over the past millennium,” mumbled Crowley, rolling over and stuffing his face grumpily into the back of the couch.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Aziraphale, reaching over and tugging Crowley’s shoulder, causing him to turn his head and glare harshly with those yellow snake eyes. It might have been intimidating if the angel hadn’t seen that glare an absolutely innumerable amount of times before. “Are you saying you have been dealing with this every year, getting all sick and sweaty and – and I never noticed it? I would have noticed something like this Crowley. At least, I could have helped you…”

Perhaps it was the mild hurt in the Aziraphale’s voice that affected Crowley, but he flopped over to look somewhat apologetic and sheepish. “Look angel, I had my reasons not to tell you. Never mind that it’s embarrassing…” He huffed out a breath, blowing out his sweaty bangs. Then he held up his right hand – his dominant hand – and snapped. A tiny flame appeared at the tip of his finger, the one most often used for lighting cigarettes. It flickered weakly for a moment and then disappeared with a puff of smoke. Crowley gazed at it sadly. “It’s not just my body. My powers are affected too. It wasn’t that I was trying to keep things for you, just… well, with you being a principality and all… it didn’t seem smart to let you in on the fact that I was mortally weakened once every 12 months. Not that – not that I ever thought you would hurt me!” he said hastily. “It just seemed… prudent. At the time. You know how it is, right angel?” His tone rose in a question, his golden eyes imploring.

Aziraphale sighed sadly, breaking his gaze away from the demon. “I understand. It wouldn’t have been safe to tell me. Even if I didn’t hurt you, someone else could have used it to… anyways. I understand.”

There was silence between them for a moment, thick with an unnatural awkwardness between the millennial companions. It was broken by Crowley sneezing.

“All right,” Aziraphale stood up abruptly, clapping his perfectly manicured hands together. “We are getting you better.”

“Wha- angel, there’s nothing you can do,” groaned Crowley, who had winced at the clap. “It’s just how it is. Usually I sleep it off, but…” he trailed away, looking sheepish again. Aziraphale couldn’t help but be intrigued by the rare blush rising on the demon’s pale cheeks. “Well, I couldn’t sleep at my place for some reason. At all. So I googled some methods for falling asleep – that’s an internet search engine –“

“I know The Google,” snapped Aziraphale testily.

“Yeah, right,” smirked Crowley. “Anyways, it said I should sort of… imagine a place that was really comfortable, somewhere easy to fall asleep and I… well, for some reason I just thought of your back room, and this sofa…” he trailed off again, cheeks getting darker with red. “Well I figured what’s the point in laying here like a prat pretending I’m sleeping on your sofa, when I could just come over and actually sleep on it.”

Aziraphale turned away towards the kitchenette, hiding a smile. The sad, hollow feeling in the stomach at Crowley’s admission about why he hadn’t shared his affliction was quickly being pushed out by this new feeling of warmth. “Of course, that is completely reasonable,” he replied, trying not to sound at all smug.

“Yeah, well,” stuttered Crowley, his voice uncharacteristically awkward. “Here I am, so if it’s no difference to you I’m just gonna take a quick nap. And then I’ll be off.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” replied Aziraphale smoothly from the next room. The sound of porcelain clinking and a kettle settling on the stovetop. “You’re going to have something hot to drink first.”

“Coffee,” Crowley croaked.

“Mhm,” Aziraphale made a sound in the negative. “No, the caffeine will only help to dehydrate you.”

“Dehydrate – angel, I’m not a plant, I don’t need to ‘hydrate’ for … someone’s sake.”

But Crowley’s protest went apparently unheard as the angel replied, “Hot chocolate then? I know you aren’t one for tea. Pity, I have so many medicinal blends that would surely help…”

“Angel,” groaned Crowley. “Stop it.”

There was a pause. Then, from the kitchen, “Dark chocolate? 80% cacao. Just a small dash of sugar, no cream?”

Crowley sighed, rubbing his aching brow. “Nyeh, alright. That sounds okay. Make sure it’s not too sweet.”

“Bitter, just like my favourite demon,” quipped Aziraphale. Crowley huffed, but didn’t protest.

In no time at all, the demon was being forced into the sitting position while the angel pushed a steaming mug of dark hot chocolate into his clammy hands. After a moment, he also pulled a small round end-table in front of Crowley and placed down a large bowl of steaming soup, paired with a comically large spoon and a red cloth napkin. A piece of buttered toast sat on a small plate beside it.

Crowley sputtered at the sight of the soup bowl, nearly spitting out his first sip of hot chocolate. “ _Soup_ angel?! Are you serious?”

“It’s chicken noodle,” said Aziraphale defensively. “It’s supposed to help with a wide array of illnesses.”

“I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but demons don’t need _chicken noodle soup_ ,” replied Crowley caustically.

Aziraphale frowned back, arms crossed primly. “I looked it up on The Google. Web MD had many helpful tips. Though I did do a quick search of your symptoms and I didn’t find anything concrete.” The angel sighed despondently. “What with the sweating, pale visage, all-over body weakness and general bad humor, the closest result was apparently a hangover. Though it could possibly be cancer.”

Crowley scoffed, still glaring at the soup. “I’m a demon. Demons don’t get hangovers. Or anything else for that matter.”

“Well apparently you get _something_ ,” said the angel with a very well-practiced holier-than-thou tone as he sat back down in the chair across from him. “And I’m going to do everything in my power to help you through it.”

Crowley pulled his gaze from the soup and scrunched his nose at the angel. “Ngk… thanks. I guess.”

“You’re very welcome,” said Aziraphale, a bright smile spreading over his face.

Crowley mumbled again indistinctly, the blush in his cheeks rising again as he took a sip of the hot chocolate.

**~**

Aziraphale eventually relented and brought out the scotch. Only after Crowley promised to at least _try_ the soup, which he did, and even begrudgingly admitted that it was tasty. The angel didn’t mind finishing off the rest, not worried about catching any demonic virus – _as if_ his celestial body could be affected by something like that – and soon the two of them were enjoying a tumbler of honey brown vintage.

“Angel,” croaked Crowley after a few sips, still looking worse for wear. “Y’have any ice?”

Aziraphale frowned at him over his glass. “Ice? Crowley, this is a prewar vintage. Adding ice to it would be… well, sacrilege.” He chuckled to himself.

“Maybe I just need something to sharpen my fangs on,” the demon hissed grumpily.

“Fine, fine, give me a moment then. Don’t get in a tizzy…”

“I’m not the one who gets in “tizzys” angel and you know it.”

“Well you’ve sure made a fuss today, let me tell you. Why, when I first saw you at the door you certainly gave me a shock! Didn’t even recognize that raspy old voice. Thought maybe Beelzebub had come to call….”

The blonde angel trailed off as he came back with the ice and stopped in front of the sofa. A soft smile curved his lips. Crowley was asleep. Conked right out. His head lolled back against the arm of the sofa, one arm dangling off and the other curled tightly against his chest. His knees were tucked up under him. A faint rattle emitted from his wide-open mouth, fangs glinting in the warm lamplight.

“Oh, silly demon,” whispered Aziraphale fondly, bending to pick up the half empty scotch glass on the floor right under Crowley’s long dangling fingers. He puttered around as quietly as possible, clearing up the cups and plates, gathering a pillow and blanket. He needn’t have bothered with the soft steps because when Crowley slept – really slept – he was a professional. Even Aziraphale jostling the demon into a more comfortable position, tucking the pillow under his head and draping a weighted comforter over him didn’t disturb his slumber in the least. 

The angel was just about to turn away from his fulfilled task of bundling up his best friend. But… but he hesitated. It was only a split-second, but the idea was in his mind and therefore would nag at him until he dealt with it. And so gently, ever so gently, Aziraphale reached out with his fingers. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath as his fingertips brushed against the lock of red hair curled over Crowley’s forehead. It was so soft, so unlike his outwardly prickly demon. So like his hidden secrets inside. Soft and warm. Aziraphale let his fingers linger against Crowley’s forehead, marveling at how smooth it was as he slept, no creases expressing any of his many animated expressions. Just… calm, silent. Peaceful. Aziraphale lightly tucked the lock of red hair back behind Crowley’s ear. As soon as he moved his hand, the hair flipped right back to where it was. Aziraphale smiled fondly, unable to help himself from making a small sound of contentment.

His sigh held some weight. He knew it was only proper – and healthy for his own heart – for him to stop this immediately. Go make some more tea, take up that 14th century manuscript sitting on his desk half-read. He forced himself to take a step back, and then another. But his blue eyes didn’t tear themselves away from the sight of the demon on his couch until the walls finally, cruelly obstructed them as he moved into the next room.

**~**

It was quite awhile later when, broken from his intense – and very enjoyable – studies, Aziraphale looked up from the age-wrinkled pages laid on his desk. It was a moment before he realized what had disturbed him; there was a sound. Coming from the back room.

From the couch. From his demon.

Was Crowley awake already? The angel dug in his pocket and checked him antique gold timepiece. It had been a mere few hours – not nearly long enough for a serious demonic nap, which Crowley was a self-proclaimed expert at.

Frowning to himself, Aziraphale left the manuscript on his desk and headed towards the disturbance. And the closer he got, the more disturbed he became; those sounds were strangled, distressed – in pain! His angelic senses were immediately alarmed as he bounded around the corner into the back room.

“Crowley, what is the – “ he began, and stopped short. “…Crowley?”

The redhead was sitting on the couch, hunched over and wrapped in the weighted blanket like a shroud. And he was – whimpering. Soft, pained sounds were spilling from his mouth. His dark eyelashes fluttered, but his eyes weren’t open all the way; He seemed to be seeing something that Aziraphale couldn’t. Something… terrible.

Aziraphale rushed over to the couch, immediately sitting down beside Crowley and only hesitating for a second before wrapping an arm around the demon’s shaking shoulders.

“Crowley, dear? Are you… okay?”

The low, fearful sounds in the demon’s throat stopped abruptly. Crowley’s head swung around, his golden eyes still only half-open. He tried to speak, but it only came out as a low hiss at first. And then, in a wretched and gravelly voice, “… angel?”

“Yes dear, I’m here,” replied Aziraphale in what he desperately hoped was a comforting tone. “Are you alright?”

“Angel,” whispered Crowley. His eyes widened towards Aziraphale, but he seemed strange. As if he wasn’t really seeing him at all. His pupils were tight, barely-there slits. “How did you get here?”

“This is where I live,” said Aziraphale, feeling more worried by the second. It didn’t help when his words made Crowley’s face contort in a wordless growl.

“No! You don’t belong here.” The demon’s voice was harsh, the lisp of his snake tongue running through every syllable. “You belong _up there._ Did you… did you fall?” A weak sob emitted from Crowley’s throat. “Oh angel, did you fall? Was it my fault? I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to bring you down with me… Oh angel, angel…”

Aziraphale felt shock as he watched his best friend’s expression crumple before his eyes, golden eyes squeezing shut as if he might cry. Aziraphale in turn squeezed his wide shoulders, but Crowley didn’t react at all to the touch. He realized belatedly that Crowley must be…. dreaming? And it was apparently a very unpleasant dream indeed. As someone who didn’t sleep, the idea of dreaming was all but an academic study for Aziraphale. He only knew what he had heard second-handedly, and of course, read about. Unsure of what to do, Aziraphale decided to just do what felt right – make his demon feel better, whatever the circumstance.

“I didn’t fall, darling,” he said softly, leaning into Crowley. He felt more comfortable using endearments in the knowledge that his demon wasn’t 100% conscious. “Don’t worry about me. I’m here for you.”

Crowley’s face slowly changed at Aziraphale’s words, filtered through the haze of his slumber. “You’re… here… for me? You came for me?” The expression on the redhead’s face suddenly became radiant, and Aziraphale had to swallow a gasp. He had never seen such an expression on Crowley’s face before, not once in the many centuries they had been attached together by some unspeakable force. It was so vastly unlike his normal visage – it was warm, soft… happy. His golden eyes poured out joy like beacons, his generous mouth smiling widely without even a hint of sarcastic smirk. “Oh Angel,” he gushed, making Aziraphale instantly redden. What was that saccharine tone? “I knew you’d come for me.”

“O-of course my dear,” said Aziraphale, barely able to form words as he took in his shining demon. For the first time, he felt that he was seeing what Crowley had once been – the warmth, the joy, the reverence. A piece of the fallen angel peeking through. “I’m always here for you.” He impulsively grabbed one of Crowley’s clammy hands in his, squeezing. He felt a thrill when the demon sighed pleasantly and squeezed back.

“You know, I never meant to… never meant to fall,” mumbled Crowley, his eyes fluttering closed again as his head rocked back and forth. “I just hung out… with the wrong crowd…”

“I know, my… my love,” whispered Aziraphale, speaking the words he wouldn’t have dared if Crowley was coherent. “It wasn’t your fault. You’re really, very good deep down.” He paused, reassessing. “Not that deep down actually.”

He almost expected such a claim to startle Crowley from his dream state, but miracle of miracles, it did not. The demon merely grinned drunkenly, his eyes closing all the way again as his fangs flashed. “Yer not so bad yourself angel.” He chuckled deeply, and the sound warmed Aziraphale’s heart.

“You just rest now, dearest,” said Aziraphale, pulling gently at Crowley’s angular shoulders and guiding him back down to a laying position on the couch. “I’m here. Nothing bad can happen to you here.” To his surprise, the demon was pliant in his hands and readily obeyed the repositioning. But before Aziraphale could get up and tuck the pillow behind his head again, Crowley spoke up again.

His voice was suddenly so soft, and heartbreakingly sad.

“Angel?”

Aizraphale felt his breath stop. “Yes dear?” he whispered back.

“Could you… would you… put in a good word for me? With… Her?” Crowley’s eyes were open again, and they gazed into Aziraphale’s with an intensity that almost made him think the demon had awakened completely. But that fragile, pleading tone would never have passed Crowley’s lips if he were aware. Never. Aziraphale looked back into those eyes, seeing every glimmer of gold and warm honey brown, the dark slits that split them harshly with the darkness of eternal damnation. “I didn’t mean to fall,” he whispered again.

Aziraphale clenched his fist against his chest, feeling a hairline crack split down the middle of his heart. He took a moment to respond, working past the lump that had grown painfully in his throat.

His voice was still a tad raspy when he answered. “Of course, I will Crowley. I’ll tell Her.”

The relief that spread across the demon’s face was almost more painful for Aziraphale than the desperation had been. “Thanks angel….” He spoke softly, still smiling as his head laid back. “You’re the only…”

And just like that, Crowley was asleep again.

Aziraphale sat at the edge of the couch, not daring to breath for a good ten minutes. He just gazed at his demon, curled up in a circle like a snake under the covers, breathing evenly and peacefully as if he hadn’t just blown the top off the angel’s entire evening. Entire _century._

As his daze slowly lifted, Aziraphale also rose. His mind was still swimming with Crowley’s words, he chest was still painfully tight. And he couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and ever so gently kissed Crowley’s soft, smooth forehead. He let his lips form words that he couldn’t speak aloud, even when he knew the demon was asleep. He let the feelings pour out of him, not holding back, knowing that the effects of his angelic love would inevitably spread out in a miraculous shimmering wave for blocks and blocks through Soho. A tsunami of affection mixed with desire and desperation that Crowley would have felt if he were awake all the way back at his apartment in Mayfair.

But Crowley was asleep, and Aziraphale was safe, and so was his beloved demon. Safe and sound on his couch, in his backroom.

In his heart.

Aziraphale eventually brought out his manuscript to read in the chair across from the sofa, but he found himself in a rare state – unable to focus on the words. Instead, he leaned back in his comfy chair with the manuscript in his lap and watched Crowley as the sun set slowly over Soho and his bookshop went dark.

**~**

All things considered, it turned out to be one of Crowley’s shortest bouts of sleeping. The demon was blinking his baby yellows and rubbing a hand over his grumpy face only a few hours after noon struck the next day. Quite unprofessional.

“Angel!” He called loudly from the couch. “Aaaangel!”

Aziraphale took his sweet time coming downstairs to stand in the doorway and stare at Crowley. “Yes?” he said primly.

Crowley whipped his head around to look at where the angel was standing. A slanted grin split his face, showing off one sharp fang. “Got coffee?”

Aziraphale frowned, not moving. “Excuse me?”

Crowley frowned back, his body twisted around in a very serpentine way. “What?”

“What’s the magic word?” Aziraphale couldn’t help his lip twitching in amusement at Crowley’s expression.

Crowley, true to form, immediately spouted off a long litany of demonic curses.

“I think you made that last one up,” commented Aziraphale, waltzing through his backroom past the sofa and heading towards the kitchenette.

“Maybe,” conceded Crowley, sitting up finally and letting the heavy blanket slide off him and onto the floor. He stretched his long arms above his head and yawned widely, showing off his incisors. “Was that a yes to coffee?”

“You seem to be in much better health this morning,” Aziraphale commented, not deigning to answer the question. Still, he put on a kettle and set up two mugs; one white with angel wings handle and a teabag, the other black and settled beside a French press filled with a dark Columbian blend he only kept around for special occasions. Such as Crowley sleeping over.

When the hot drinks were brewed, Aziraphale glided back to the sofa and handed Crowley his mug. The demon grabbed at it hastily, long fingers brushing against the angel’s. The brief contact sent an electric zap through Aziraphale, and he felt a pink blush rise in his cheeks. As if he hadn’t touched the demon’s hands before. How ridiculous!

But Aziraphale kept looking at Crowley and seeing that expression from the night before, hearing that soft a pleading voice, feeling that warm palm in his squeezing for comfort…

Blessedly, Crowley apparently noticed none of this. But his next words still made the angel jump in his seat.

“Had some crazy dreams last night.”

Aziraphale choked on his tea. “Oh, really?” he said in a tight voice, not daring to look the demon in the eyes. But Crowley was still not taking much notice of the angel; he seemed very much distracted by his own thoughts.

“Yeah…” The demon frowned, his brow creasing. “Don’t usually dream. Thank Satan,” he said, chuckling humorlessly. “Demons’ dreams aren’t generally very pleasant. But when I get sick like that, I almost always get them.” A shudder ran down his spine seemingly before he could stop it, straightening his shirtsleeves self-consciously for a moment. “It’s like I’m right back… y’know. Down there.” His eyes were dark as he stared down into Aziraphale’s plush carpet as if seeing Hell literally through the floor. “Like it was in the beginning. Right after I fell.” Crowley scowled and shook his head abruptly, as if to shake out the memories. His mouth twisted distastefully. “Not… pleasant.”

“I imagine not,” murmured Aziraphale, looking over his mug at Crowley. He was hoping desperately that the demon couldn’t read the confession he felt was painted on his face.

“But,” went on Crowley, looking upwards now, his expression changing. It lightened somewhat, the cringe fading from his mouth. “But for some reason, the dreams this time were…. different. They were still about Hell of course, but…. _something_ was different.” He frowned to himself, and then slowly lowered his gaze directly onto Aziraphale.

Aziraphale froze in the middle of a sip.

“To be honest, I usually wake up in a cold sweat from those dreams,” admitted Crowley begrudgingly, still staring at the angel. “But I didn’t last night. I just… slept right through. And I felt like… maybe. I had a good dream?” His gaze seemed to ask Aziraphale a million questions. “Is that a thing?”

“ ‘A thing?’ ” repeated Aziraphale faintly. “Why yes, I believe good dreams are common. It would seem that you have been experiencing nightmares exclusively.”

“Nightmares?” Crowley scoffed. “That’s a stupid name. Whassit got to do with horses?”

“Not a clue, dear,” Aziraphale replied, trying to keep the fondness in his voice from being too blatant.

Crowley huffed, leaning back into his trademark effortless sprawl, limbs spread out to maximum length. “I slept a hell of a lot better here than I usually do when, y’know.” He waved a hand around nonchalantly. “When I get like that. So erm… thanks.” Was Aziraphale imagining the faint blush that rose on Crowley’s face?

“Anytime, my dear,” replied Aziraphale, meaning it quite literally.

Crowley cleared his throat rather loudly and gestured with his already empty mug. “Good coffee. Any more where that came from?”

Aziraphale hid a sly smile behind his cup. “No, unfortunately,” he lied smoothly, watching the demon’s face fall slightly. “Though I do have plenty chicken noodle soup left over.”

The angel squealed in laughter as Crowley promptly whipped the empty mug in his direction, miraculously missing his head and not breaking when it hit the wall. “Never again!” Crowley proclaimed loudly, standing up and glaring threateningly. It only made Aziraphale giggle more.

“I’ll make sure I have some ready for next year,” he said, winking cheekily.

“Bastard,” said Crowley. But he couldn’t hide own grin. “You’re the worst angel I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the best demon I’ve ever met,” replied Aziraphale. It was a common jab and Crowley reacted predictably, if not sincerely, starting to rant away in his usual manner.

He didn’t know how much the angel meant it.

Aziraphale knew how good Crowley was, not so deep down. And now he knew something new. And if it meant taking care of a sick, grumpy demon with nightmares once a year?

Well, frankly, Aziraphale very secretly couldn’t wait for next year.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Please leave feedback if you feel so inclined <3  
> Oneshots are easier to write than long sweeping epics, but I have a few of those in the works too of course xD  
> Hope to see you again soon! :D


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